


불이 내 목을 타고 내려간다 (As Fire Slides Down My Throat)

by Junhonk



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, banghim, bartender!yongguk, past!himup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-14 01:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junhonk/pseuds/Junhonk
Summary: Sometimes just the offer of a shoulder to lean on can change someone's world.





	1. 제1장

Another shot glass slams on the wooden counter as the clocks surrounding the bar continue to tick. The sound reverberates through the room, and Himchan thinks he can hear the bartender reprimanding the other man. He sounds sympathetic, as though he had gone through the same emotions, the same actions. 

The room smelled musky, or of _ manly men _ as Jongup liked to say. Himchan lets out a dejected laugh,  _ I fucking loved the scent of manly men _ . Before Jongup, Himchan used to enjoy going to places like this, always excited to take someone home in hopes that they would stay. Though as he looks back, he knows it was stupid. No relationship should be started on the basis of a hot night between layers of cotton and the icy spot next to him in the morning. The one time someone had stayed was the day Himchan relished in, finally feeling like the universe had listened to his silent pleas before he fell asleep each night. 

Now, as he sat in the uncomfortable twenty year old barstool, Himchan realized he had always been right. No relationship can begin based on a one night stand. He thought the universe had heard him, but he had only been ignoring himself all along. He had been right in that relations cannot begin with one night of heat, but was he so wrong for wanting someone to stay after. 

The burn left in his throat from the shot of 120 proof whiskey told him that yes, it was very wrong; while his brain, in it's sluggish state, told him that emotions are what matters. Himchan rolled his eyes before closing them,  _ emotions are what got me here you dick _ . Himchan let his head fall on to the wood, creating a bang slightly louder than the shot glass, and calling attention to himself. 

_ Now do you see what you've done? I understand you want and you need to feel things, but you know what you don't need right now you selfish piece of shit? Embarrassment. Too late now, I guess.  _

To his dismay, the thud had called attention to not just the other men there but also the bartender, and though Himchan could definitely afford to be cut off, his memory wouldn't allow it. Himchan felt a warm hand place itself on the side of his neck. In his mind, he knew that the bartender was trying to make sure he wasn't sleeping, or dead for that matter. However whatever he knew to be true didn't stop him from imagining the impossible. Himchan  _ longed _ for the hand to curl around his neck and cup the side of his head. He wanted to be pulled up and forced to look into the man's eyes and told that everything was going to be alright.  _ That he was going to be alright. _ Himchan wanted comfort, he wanted to be reminded that Jongup isn't the only man in the world, and that he won't have to stay single forever. 

But in the time that Himchan had allowed his imagination to run far from him, the hand had left his neck and he heard footsteps moving in the opposite direction of his woeful form. Himchan wanted to call his imagination back, but he didn't want to be that one parent that calls their children home way too early, despite knowing how much they are enjoying themselves on the playground. So he continued thinking, with his head still on the table and his back beginning to become sore from his slouched position. His imagination took him into a steady relationship with the bartender; a man he hadn't even fully looked at. 

Only when Himchan realized it had been nearly half of an hour did he pull his imagination back to him. His head had become a dead weight, but he managed to lift it up with his hands, staring into the leftover golden brown liquid next to him. Akin to the glossy table, Himchan could see his reflection in his drink if he looked hard enough. His hair was now pressed against his forehead, a change from his earlier style that he liked to call the 'my-boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-me-and-my-anxious-habit-is-running-my-hands-through-my-hair' look. The red and puffiness of his eyes had also seemingly decreased, leaving him to look right back at the eyes that used to stare at better things. Things he loved. But if he only had himself to stare at, he wouldn't be able to see any love. Himchan was broken. Like a machine, Himchan was always told that he was broken, except no one knew how to fix him. 

_ "Broken people can't love other people properly. If I stay with you, you'll hold me back from really enjoying loving someone."  _

Himchan really didn't want to be broken anymore. 

He dragged his fingers up to his face, wanting to feel what was left. The image in his shot glass seemed so fake, of someone who had simply had a bad day, or maybe they just wanted to come to the bar to get their minds off of something. Himchan had to make sure that he was still real, that this place was still real. Although he did indeed come for those reasons, the toll they took on him was so much larger than what they implied. 

He thought of all the times he had heard someone say "Oh, I had a bad day today." He wondered if their definition of bad day was something like hitting all of the red lights on the way to work after already being late; or if 'bad day' meant that they had been wrongly accused of something, and then suddenly their dog died. 

Himchan never liked saying he'd had a bad day though, as it implied the effects of the day would only last until midnight. But usually, when something rains it pours, and Himchan is always the one person who forgot their umbrella in their rush to work that morning. 

Suddenly, he heard another small bang, but then realized it was his foot sliding off of the chair and slamming into the bar. The realization came when pain shot up his leg and through his spine like a drop of ink on watercolor paper. Pain had found it's own way into Himchan’s body, enveloping him whole, not forgetting to make him feel like he had been chewed up and swallowed.

Blame the alcohol, he was tired. He felt like all of the energy had been sucked out of his body and hidden in a secret container far off in the Indies, in a cave known only to the ancestors of dead natives. How desperately he searched for the container was up to him, and though without it he felt like nothing but a weight on top of an old and tattered stool; he realized that that image was exactly what he was. He was good for nothing at this point, and Jongup was right. Himchan had no interest in loving himself, so why would anyone else? 

Himchan sighed heavily, the dramatic loss in weight causing him to nearly tip out of his chair, only saved by two large and thin hands. He slowly turned his head to see who had just caught him, though his blurry vision only permitted him to see the vague outline of another man's face. Himchan squinted, wanting desperately to know who this man was, or to at least be able to recognize who saved him when he sobered up. He semi-stood there trying to figure out how to manipulate his drunk eyes, but the figure soon helped him start walking towards the door. 

Himchan was never a man to dine and dash, especially due to his awareness of the low pay rate of waiters and waitress'. He wanted to yell in protest of being moved, but all he managed to do was whimper. By whatever power above suddenly taking mercy on him, Himchan heard the man say not to worry, and that his drinks had been paid for already. 

The stranger kept his grip firm around Himchan's arms, supporting the man as he helped him walk out of the bar on two feet. Himchan had been trying his hardest to use his feet properly, though he found his legs were almost as disobedient as himself and became useless when events turned challenging. Himchan wanted to yell. 

The door of the humble establishment opened and the humid summer air hit Himchan's face like a wall, making him want to stop every movement he was currently undergoing. His mind was racing with what he should do, but when he heard the stranger trying to talk to him, he calmed it down to listen. 

"I have no idea where you live so you're coming to stay at my apartment tonight. I hope that's alright. I won't do anything to you, I promise. I just couldn't find your phone or any indication as to where you live so-" 

Himchan was shocked. The voice that came from the stranger was incredibly deep and had a gravelly tone to it. He felt very uneasy, especially after hearing that he would be staying at the other man's apartment for the night. However if he were to be honest, Himchan had no idea where he lived in his inebriated state, and this seemed like a better option than getting lost at this hour. With any luck he would sober up in time to be alert. Himchan laughed out loud at the thought, he never wanted to be sober again. 

The ride to the apartment was short. Though it was a ride on the other man's back instead of in a car. Himchan figured that the man lived so close because he was... Maybe he was the bartender? He had no idea. The man below him climbed the stairs, grunting a bit with each step as they neared the final flight of stairs, after climbing six flights. This man was strong. 

Himchan was carried down a hallway and heard when a door was unlocked, opened, and then shut behind them. The man carried him further into the apartment and finally set him down gently on top of a fluffy bed. Himchan smiled, the bed brought him the nicest feeling in his entire day. Himchan heard the deep voice calling out to him once again, but with cool air surrounding him, and being tucked into a soft comforter, there was little to no chance the man was going to be acknowledged. 

The man had eventually stopped calling out to him, and traded that for wiping Himchan's sweaty bangs from his forehead and walking out of the room to let Himchan sleep. The feel of his fingertips relaxed Himchan so greatly, and it took three brushes before his vision narrowed, his eyes closed in sleep. 

 

-

 

Himchan awoke the next morning in an unfamiliar bed, with an unfamiliar scent and appearance surrounding it. His head was pounding, though pounding his head into something didn't sound like that terrible of an idea. He turned ever so slightly to see a bottle of Ibuprofen next to a glass of water. Himchan gladly took the bottle and checked the medicine before taking it, grateful to whomever thought to bring him it. 

It was in that moment that Himchan noticed a small note beneath where the water had been. It was in foreign handwriting, but still in Himchan's native language, permitting him to comprehend it. Himchan picked the note up and read it from his original position in the bed, looking straight up at it. 

Himchan was broken. Like a machine, that no one knew how to fix. 

He finally decided to pull out the owner's manual and try. 

 

_ Good morning Himchan, I realize you're probably very confused right now. But this is Bang Yongguk, the bartender at the bar you frequent. I'm not sure if you realize it, but you talk to yourself a lot, that's how I know your name. I heard you yesterday, by the way. I just wanted to tell you that if you want to talk to someone who will listen, I'm here for you. But I agree with you, unfortunately self-esteem is something only we can fix for ourselves. I hope the repair isn't that difficult for you, but if it is I can be your shoulder to lean on.   _

 

_ (P.S. the medicine is for your hangover if you need it. Wouldn't want you to have to go on with the headache that that stuff usually gives people.) _

 

 

Himchan almost laughed out loud. After finding out that Yongguk had left for his other day job, and also that it was eleven in the morning, Himchan decided to leave the apartment; but not without leaving a note with his number telling Yongguk to text him. He nearly tumbled down two flights of stairs before realizing  _ hey, that's what railings are for _ . It's safe to say that the last few flights were only stumbled down, with the occasional mis footing. 

Though it took him quite a while, Himchan managed to reach the bottom floor, and scanned his surroundings. He remembered some small things about the lobby from the night before, such as the peeling paint on the ceiling, and the small TV stuffed into the corner. It almost looked like a wannabe hotel lobby, but one that didn't have enough time nor money. 

Himchan took note of everything, wanting to best preserve the location in his mind. Despite his current state of disarray, he knew enough that he was a writer who had been searching for a place just like this to write as a semi-main setting. The horror he wrote and the horror he felt often meshed together, forming a feeling of darkness and guilt that many writers wanted to badly to convey. Himchan didn't want anyone else to write like that. It meant that they would have to feel like him, and he would never wish the way he lives on someone else. He could never wish the impending feeling of emptiness at the end of the day when the lights go out, or the void he tries so desperately to fill with alcohol and artificial love. 

It took him two minutes to find his way out of the building and nearly into the road. As his foot tipped off of the sidewalk, his other foot grounded himself.  _ You're going to fix yourself, remember? _ Himchan actually scoffed this time. This meant no more slightly unintended suicidal tendencies. His pent up anger from everything that had happened in the last few days coming out in small bursts. A small punch here, maybe sinking his fingernails into his palm as a result of his muscles contracting to be too tight. 

Himchan walked on, following the sidewalk until he found a nearby metro, and took the train home. The train was the color of aluminum on the outside of the car, and on the inside a dirty light gray and faded orange. Himchan had always liked the combination of orange and gray in a room, accent pillows often setting the color scheme off. But in the train, the colors looked like mold on an orange left too long inside a neighboring locker at school. 

Reluctantly, Himchan sat down in a seat not nearby any others. He was grateful for the single seat, as it didn't come in pairs like everything else in the world seemed to. All pairs reminded Himchan that he had no one else with him.  _ Bang Yongguk. _  The bartender who took Himchan to his house because he was too drunk to tell anyone his address. The bartender who had listened to everything Himchan accidentally said while trying to reprimand himself the previous night. The man who'd left him a note saying what he had thought all along, but reminded him that he doesn't have to be alone. That he can have a shoulder to lean on. 

He thought about the offer for a long time. The thought of Yongguk surrounding itself around Himchan's mind. The scenery passed them fast, and soon the train was passing through parks, then going underground once more. Himchan's eyes had been glued to a small spot of dirt onto the window, letting him focus more on his thoughts than the world around him. It took him until he reached his own apartment to come to a final decision. 

Himchan wanted someone to lean on, but he didn't want to become too dependent. So should Bang Yongguk text him, he would respond, but not about his issues. He would merely talk to the man about mundane things. Then maybe, just maybe, when he was halfway fixed, he would go and talk to the man. 

He was indeed a fool, but even Himchan knew that this process would take lots of time. Months at least, perhaps years. But slow and steady wins the race. Himchan knew that if he wanted to be able to actually feel better, he must do this on his own. He pulled out his phone to see a new message from an unknown number.

_ Hi, this is Bang Yongguk. Good luck Himchan! _

 

 


	2. 제1.5과

A warm breeze flew into his room through the open window. Pulling up bits of dust, tickling the paws of an old stuffed bear; and then finally reaching him, though at this point any wind to Himchan felt like nothing short of a nuisance. 

He sat in front of his computer, his fingers tired from typing, reading, refining his search, and then reading again. Buying a mouse for painless scrolling would be a solid investment for him at this point. Himchan scoffed at the current article, it amazed him how people could actually post things like this online. How people could give advice to others that was utterly useless, as if they'd never actually realized just how far someone can dig themselves into the ground?

With music playing in the background, the flats and sharps pleased his ears in a beautifully dark melody, casting their spell on anything and everything within hearing range. Himchan refined his search again, hoping to finally come up with somewhat of a helpful result. 

He clicked on the first article, desperate enough to try whatever came up. The link lead him to a step-by-step process in both identifying and curing his lack of self esteem. The first step asked him to identify things that could trigger his lack of self esteem, such as events or arguments with loved ones. Himchan almost laughed, "Hm, but what about if it's just at a perpetual low? What the fuck am I supposed to do then?"

He continued scrolling to the next section, which told him to go against his negative and/or inaccurate thinking. It told him to ask himself whether his thoughts fit the real-life narrative of events. Himchan sighed, thinking about how he used to have to motivate himself. He'd always found that negative reinforcement worked best for getting things done. 

He had a knack for remembering who disliked him and what they said; rather than the words of those who loved him. People seemed to find the jokes against him funniest at school, as they were some of the best he used to tell. These things gave him a twisted sort of self confidence, lacking in what was important mentally, and instead building a wall that seemed sufficient to block the comments from himself. 

"Be humble Himchannie, no one likes a braggart." 

His parents words still ring in his mind. He didn't blame them, of course. How could they know how seriously he would later end up taking the words? He was only four at the time, overconfident in every way because his world was naturally centered around himself. He could definitely be the best if he was the only one there. But he was chided, kept from becoming an adult who left a sour aftertaste in other people's mouths; a narcissist. Instead, with those words rearing their heads in his mind so often he became the opposite. He told himself he wasn't good at anything to prevent such a fate, that someone else was always smarter, prettier, and better. Every time he felt himself feeling on the slightest edge of over-confident, he scolded himself, keeping the level down and reminding him that he would never be number one. 

He'd been lucky enough to have a few friends through school, all of whom had to endure his talkative personality, and all of whom he'd apologize to repeatedly as he never quite understood how someone could find it in them to put up with his habits of being. Sometimes it would hit him hard, like walking into a door. He wanted to die, sometimes wishing it was really a door that could smash him in the head and kill him  _ it had happened before. _

     It was those days that he'd drown in music, trying to find small things behind the wall he built that maybe just  _ maybe _ other people would appreciate that really murdered him. He would think of something, but then chide himself as  _ who the hell would care enough to get to know that part of you anyway, and just because you think it's even half worth appreciating doesn't mean that anyone else will.  _

But the thing he hated the most,  _ the thing he hated the absolute most,  _ was his inability to keep it to himself. It seemed every time someone came along who happened to be half-willing to listen, he would start talking and go on forever. He never understood why. He'd been hurt and betrayed by enough people that he shouldn't be able to trust anyone at this point, but he kept hoping  _ wishing _ that someone would hear him out. 

_ It took him until he was 21 to find that the only companion he could trust was the fire that appeared as alcohol found it's way down his throat and into his veins, coaxing his nervous system into forgetting and letting go. But even then he could only turn to it so often, clinging onto the last bit of control he had over himself.  _

Himchan's trance ended when the song changed to the next, presenting a bit of a softer melody bringing a sudden urge for Himchan to wrap himself in a throw blanket. He did so, letting the fabric tickle his nose as he scrolled down to the following section. 

Sometimes when he became bored, Himchan liked to analyze words in articles and on labels, seeing through the product itself and staring into what the seller wanted the buyer to think. The classic case of the merchants ‘pretty’ words. 

     As he read through the website, Himchan found that it only used gentle words. Words that were used when talking to fragile people, so that they wouldn't take the burden laced within words upon themselves, without the speaker even realizing the effect on the receiving end. 

Himchan smirked,  _ at least it seemed like they know what crowd they're appealing to. _ The rules of the whole operation were crafted into suggestions and polite recommendations. Himchan felt like a fool, he didn't want to be fragile, he didn't want to hear these 'comforting' words subconsciously coaxing him into a better state of mind. Himchan shut his laptop, sighing when he realized that he needed to be treated like a fool, he needed to work. Sometimes he just wanted to be okay, and not need the silly words easing him into recovery. 

Himchan wanted to yell. He needed this. 

The little screen beneath Himchan's forearm lit up, signaling him of a newly acquired notification. He moved his lethargic body, exposing the phone and whatever had just come up. Himchan saw the contact name for the bartender, Bang Yongguk. 

_ "Good luck himchan : ))" _

Himchan lifted the screen of his laptop, looking at the tab once more. Reaching in a drawer he found a notepad and began writing the steps down, both important and unimportant. 

He needed this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, originally I hadn't planned this chapter to be a thing, but I felt I needed to do Himchan's character some justice. Final chapter will be out soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo !  
> So in lieu of a new translucent chapter I have allowed myself to begin this two-shot. (And no worries, it won't be a month before it's done :)  
> Please let me know what you think of it, as the writing is kinda going back too my roots of writing darker things. Maybe I'll write some of that too- though it was kinda wild. Let me know if you wanna see some more terror/horror-themes
> 
> Thank you to my beta as always and hopefully the part I added is okay,,, I was getting impatient but I didn't wanna wake you up :------) 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated so much, and I look forward to you guys reading this. I hope it's alright !


End file.
